Coming Back to Life
by Yet Another Pseudonym
Summary: Lysandra Hawke and a certain elf finally find peace amidst chaos. A sequel of a sort to "On the Turning Away." FemHawke/Fenris


_And more apologies to Pink Floyd._

He has three years to make up for. Three years of touch, only partially accounted for after hours of exploring each and every inch of velvet flesh. Three years of taste he'll never catch up on, though his lips swell from the frenzied battle with hers, and his tongue lolls after bathing her head to foot and back again. Three years of sighs and screams, though she's gone as hoarse as he has. Three years of almost endless yearning for the warmth of her skin, the gentle play of her fingers against his markings that both sears and comforts him. Three years of almost unbearable urges to brush her cascading hair aside and bury his lips behind her tiny ears. Three years lost to nothing more noble than cowardice, and three years to apologize for; something he can never do as well as he wishes.

Her lips puff, plump and almost impossibly full. They've gone brilliant red, and tomorrow she'll have trouble speaking. That doesn't seem to deter her from seeking his again, though he's half-numb from devouring her, and he welcomes it. He basks in the faint scorching as she finds one of the long threads of lyrium that mars his back and runs her hand along it. He hasn't bothered to tell her of the burning when she touches him; he knows she'll never run another finger along them even if he finds the pain cleansing and the path of her fingers as soothing as silk. Another hand finds his hair, and he feels her lips widen against his as her fingers send shots of lighting down his spine. He pulls her close and settles a hand on the warm, taut curve of her buttock.

_Andra…_

She looks up, and he realizes he's spoken her name aloud.

"Leto?" she breathes. Or perhaps it's more of a cough, dry as her throat must be. His own aches in response, and he swallows in a vain attempt to ease its sudden desiccation.

_Not now. You can speak to her of it later._

He kisses her forehead and brushes her hair back behind her ear. She gasps something out as he disentangles himself, but it's lost in the harshness her earlier screaming has inflicted upon her. The last time he dared to do such a thing…

_She sits in front of the fire he's managed to light in his wrecked fireplace. She curls on the floor as he sits on the bench. She's opened a book, one far less interesting than the tale of Shartan she'd found for him, and she takes in the words just before she hands it to him. Memorizing, so she can correct any of his errors as he reads it back. Her hair falls over her cheek and he can't even see the tip of her nose over the curtain it forms. Somehow, the field of crimson offends him, and he reaches to tuck it behind her ear. He hates not seeing the roundness in her cheeks or the shape of her brows even though he no longer has the right. Even though he surrendered that right. She looks up and smiles, and his heart stops. She grows more beautiful each day, and each time he sees the hint of grief behind the smile, his heart takes longer and longer to start up again._

"You sound like you swallowed a pond's worth of frogs," he says.

"A pond… Sounds heavenly. Not that you sound much better than me." She grins and clears her throat.

He doesn't expect her to follow as he heads to the table to pour a goblet of water, but she does, and slips her arms around him as she warms his back. He half-dreads her inevitable reach toward his chest as he hefts the flagon in one shaking hand. It isn't exactly warm tonight, though she does her part in keeping his heat from escaping; a spilled cup can't help things much. The grab doesn't come, but the flutter of her hair sends shivers down his spine as she leans against him. She rests against him as he pours, her breath a spot of fire between his shoulders. Only as he lets the flagon rest again on the table does he understand why she isn't tormenting him the way he almost wants her to.

_She missed you every bit as much as you missed her._

Or perhaps she's just thirsty.

He extends the cup to her and she smiles as she takes it.

"You don't want any?"

"Yes."

"So where's the second cup?"

He eyes the pile of dishes in the corner and raises a brow. He may have been forced to learn to wash with an expert touch, but he's damned if he'll do it more often than necessary. And maybe not even that often.

"Right," she says, and takes a long swig. And then another until the goblet is as dry as his parched throat.

Just as he's about to protest, she winks and picks up the flagon. When the goblet's full once more, she lifts it to his lips and waits until he sighs and drinks. She's far more expert at serving than he expects; she measures out the perfect amount of water for each sip, and tilts the goblet back when he finishes. He wonders if she knows just how much of the Imperium is in that gesture, or if she guesses that he's held far too many cups for his former master. His _deceased_ master. He swallows his gorge as she serves him, no matter how much his stomach wrenches as the cup tilts again. At least the water soothes his throat.

And, at last, it's gone. She hands him the cup with a wicked smile.

"Where did you learn such things?" He hopes his voice isn't too harsh with condemnation.

"There's only so much a mother can do when the Maker blesses her with twins. Beth was my responsibility."

_Family._ He sets the cup down and his stomach stops clenching. _An expression of love._ The water settles and he can accept her smile in its true spirit. He wonders how many overtures of hers he's similarly misinterpreted over the years, but as her hands brush his cheek and lose themselves in his hair, he realizes it doesn't really matter. And it matters even less to her.

She shivers and her skin goes bumpy. He brushes her hair back and vision strikes him as the stripes Danarius seared into each palm ignite and send fire down his spine.

_Varania trips on a loose stone and tumbles to the ground. Her streaming hair has gone as mad and tangled as her sudden cry. He kneels beside her and brushes her hair back. She's banged her knee, but not badly enough to bleed. She forces a smile through the tears._

"Leto." Two voices, one mature with the faintest hint of playfulness, and the other girlish, lent resonance with the echo and fading of memory.

It's time to put a stop to that name. Forever. But, first things first; the bumps on her skin have turned to mountains. She's lighter than he anticipates as he cradles her, and she only breathes as he slides her beneath the covers. He slips in beside her and takes her cheeks in his hands. She raises an eyebrow and smiles as he stares into her eyes. He can't glower at her, no matter how much her transgression calls for it, because he sees admiration in those eyes and in that smile. Why?

"No more 'Leto,'" he says, trying to force grit and gravel into his voice. It's easier than he thinks; the water has only given the frogs something to splash around in.

"Why not? It's a strong name. A _noble_ name."

"A cursed name, ruined by magic."

"Made noble by love."

He drops his hands and turns over. The decrepit wall soothes him more than her smile.

"A strong name for a strong man, Fenris, even if you don't believe me." At least "Fenris" sounds right on her lips.

"A weak, cowardly name tainted by magic. I _wanted_ this. I fought for it. I'm no better than Danarius or the magisters or any of the blood mages we keep running into."

"Is that really what you think? Maybe it's time to see things from a different perspective."

She strokes his hair as the crumbling plaster of the wall becomes far too familiar. Maybe she's right, and the only way he's going to shed any of his bitterness is to hear her try to convince him he's wrong. She's perhaps a little too talented at that, whether she's right or no. He misses her smile too much as his eyes trace a long crack that branches out like a tree, and he musters his courage to face her.

"There is only one perspective that matters."

"That's right." She grins. "Mine."

"The truth."

"Do you think you can even see the truth, as biased as you are? I probably see more of it than you do."

"Tell me 'the truth,' then."

Her smile widens. "This Leto you've almost forgotten sacrificed himself to enormous pain to give his family the only gift that matters: freedom."

He stares at her, but he doesn't think that his desire for power can be explained away quite so easily, even if what she says does make a little sense.

"Why would he… would I do such a thing?"

"Because you loved them, and you'd do anything for them. Don't even try to deny it—I've seen how he lives on in you, even if you don't remember him."

"Really."

She wraps her arms around him and presses her lips to his ear. "Really." She whispers a litany of events that he hesitates to remember. The slave girl. Feynriel's rescue. The little girl, Lia. She pours out more as he lies paralyzed, claiming he's strong. _How much did you survive under Danarius? You've hinted at it, but I can only imagine how horrible it's been. And I know I can never really understand everything you've suffered. I'd give anything to be able to erase any of it—my life for even one event, one single moment of torture._

"An unusual perspective," he says as she finishes and nibbles on his ear. "And what would you have me do with it?"

"Accept it."

"Accept it?"

"If you can't, at least stop torturing yourself! Even if this 'Leto' craved power, the man who's with me now doesn't."

"Varania said…"

"Varania's a woman who has been twisted by a lifetime in that… utter hell. I'd take anything she says with a grain of salt. Or ten."

And a charitable view of his sister as well. He can't figure out why that thought rankles him. Maybe the hate seeks a new target—the only target who still lives. He clenches his fist and his teeth at the same time and takes solace in the cramping at his temples. For a moment, he lets the hate take him over and envisions Varania's death. She writhes on his fist and gasps her last as his hand grips her wet, hot and pulsing heart. It stops in his grasp and he lets her limp body crash to the ground. Not that the thought grants him any peace. Instead, he squelches the urge to jump out of bed and pace the length of the room.

"Andra…" She raises an eyebrow that he quickly loses sight of as he buries his lips in the crook of her neck. "My Andraste. Tell me how you manage to stay so reasonable."

Her eyes go wide. "I'm no Andraste."

"Then you're that other saint who frees random elves from the Tevinters. Sister FreestheElvhen, friend to abominations and arrogant twits."

"You're the latter, I take it?" She giggles just a little.

"I _refer_ to the blood mage."

"Of course," she says with mock solemnity. "You do know that Merrill hates me, don't you? I'm just a 'shemlen.'"

"A mark in your favor." He can't help his sudden laugh. "Tell me, my saint, what future lies before us?"

"Well, I still have to figure out what to do with that damned hammer thing. The arroo-home, or whatever it is."

"You still have that thing locked away? How long are you supposed to hold it?"

She grins and shrugs. "I'm guessing the future also involves a lot more duels with silver-skinned monsters that you somehow egg me into."

"You run quickly."

"Not as fast as the Arishok." She runs a finger along his lips and nuzzles his nose with hers. "Let's see, what else? How about a few men with floor and roof tiles?"

"And you intend to do what with them?"

She looks up, her lips twitching. Yes, the hole. Aveline has mentioned it too many times in her endless concerned lectures. "You have _mushrooms_ growing in the entryway."

"I'm self-sufficient and they're quite tasty stewed. Tell me, have you never thought of returning to Ferelden?"

"Constantly. If things weren't so dire, I might petition to have Bethany transferred to the Circle there. Ferelden's Circle is a big, ugly tower in the middle of a lake—you'd probably find it secure enough—and you can't enter or leave unless you can somehow summon a boat. Still, I've heard the First Enchanter isn't a madman, and the Templars aren't… Well, completely insane is about the best I can put it."

"Maybe if things calm here, we can visit."

He wonders what Ferelden is really like. He's heard the rumors, of course. Brown, cold, and full of Fereldens. And dogs. But he's come to appreciate the stolid, hard-working people and their spirit over the years, due in no small part to his Andra. _His_ Andra. Yes, it does sound right, finally.

"Calm? Kirkwall? You _are_ mad."

She always makes him forget the bitterness, and he laughs with her. The laughter has been strained for far too long. Three years. Three wasted years that somehow made him finally able to accept what she's wanted to give him. He chats with her about the future as if it isn't the endless entangling of twin fates, as if it isn't the most important thing he's ever had to contemplate. She brings him light and lightness of spirit as she always has when she speaks to him. She makes what he'd thought of as almost impossible only a few hours before feel natural and weightless. _The future_, punctuated with kisses and her ticklish searing touch, no longer feels like an obstacle, but something to embrace with both arms wide open.

She ruffles his hair and smiles, and he lives again.


End file.
